


When the Heart is Sick

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aithusa Deserved Better, Cuddling & Snuggling, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Light Angst, Look I'm Soft For Characters Being Soft, M/M, Sometimes A Family Is A Prince And A Sorcerer And Their Tiny Dragon Daughter, arthur deserved better, everyone deserved better, mostly feels, they're all soft and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Sleep hasn't come easily in these past months with so much happening in so little time and so much needing to be done, and even when it does come, Arthur's dreams haven't been kind to him. The presence of family, though, certainly helps. No matter what form that family might have.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737112
Comments: 30
Kudos: 795
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	When the Heart is Sick

**Author's Note:**

> In the same AU as my other Aithusa fic [Nepenthe and Lavender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674522), but you don't have to read that to understand this. But you could. If you wanted to.

"Arthur."

The sound of his manservant's voice brings him sharply back to wakefulness, water sloshing over the rim of the tub as his limbs twitch in reflex and surprise. In the process, he also somehow manages to get water up his nose and goes into a sneezing fit for it, snorting and rubbing his face with the back of his wrist. When he manages to get control of himself again, coughing a little, Merlin is still kneeling beside the tub, though he isn't laughing or even smiling.

"What?" he asks, aiming for sharp but falling short.

"You were falling asleep." Merlin folds his arms on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. "You'll drown yourself like that."

Ah. Now he knows how he managed to get water in his nose too. He had started sliding low in the water as he dozed off. Arthur grasps the edges and pulls himself a little more upright, the edge of the tub pressed in a hard line across his back. "I'm awake."

Merlin doesn't speak, a miracle in and of itself, but he raises his brows—the expression is uncannily alike his mentor's—and gazes at Arthur unblinking until the prince regent shifts slightly in the tub. "Wash your hair before the water gets cold and you catch a chill," he says at last, grabbing a lump of soap and cloth from the stool beside the tub, holding them out.

Arthur resists the urge to say for the _nth_ time that he is the one meant to be giving orders here, knowing that he'll have to say it again anyways. He takes the soap and cloth. The world goes muffled as he dunks his head beneath the water, pulse in his ears. A shiver trails down his neck when he surfaces again, water trickling down, and his wet hair is plastered down, even over his eyes, and he has to swipe it all back with one hand before he can open his eyes again.

A soft chuckle from the other side of the room. "You look like a drowned hedgepig."

"Shut up, Merlin." Working up a lather, he scrubs the cloth over the nape of his neck and through his hair, removing the sweat and grime and general feeling of uncleanliness that's clinging to him all over. It doesn't do much for the dull throb behind his eyes or the old ache in his Questing Beast bite, but at least he no longer feels like he's just rolled in the dirt with the hounds.

Once he's dunked himself twice more to rinse the lather from his hair, Merlin returns to stand beside the tub, holding a thick, woolen towel over one arm. "Out with you."

"Again with the orders," Arthur mutters. Gripping the edges of the tub for balance, he heaves himself upright; he bites the inside of his mouth as it sends a sharp throb of pain through his shoulder, radiating out from the old bite wound. It pains him sometimes still, particularly when stress gets to him. Or when it gets cold enough, and he mentally apologises for all those instances where he teased Father about predicting the weather with his old tourney injury. Thoughts of his father only make his heart sink a little further, remembering the man's hollow-eyed stare, gazing past him as though he wasn't there at all.

Merlin offers a shoulder for Arthur to brace himself against so he doesn't slip, holding out the towel for him. It's still warm from being hung by the fire. "Shall I tend your shoulder, sire?" he asks softly.

Despite himself, he smiles a little. Merlin always claims that he can't read minds, and yet…. "If you would." He dries himself off and changes into his nightshift while Merlin uses his magic to conjure away the bathwater. How strange to think that a year ago, such a thing would've set him on edge, but now he welcomes it, knowing it means Merlin won't be away from him long. As he throws himself facedown onto the bed, there's a muffled chirp from elsewhere in the bedding, and he grins into his pillow. That's another part of his life that probably shouldn't be as comforting as it is.

Aithusa crawls out from the small nest she's made amid the pillows, a splash of snowy white against the rich red of the bedclothes. Small claws prick at him through his shift, thankfully still baby-soft and not hardened to the armour-piercing points of the other dragon whose name shall not be mentioned. She curls herself over the back of his neck and peeps softly in his ear; a vague sense of puzzled concern seeps into his mind. Arthur turns his head to rest his cheek on the pillow, almost loathing how tired he is. Sleep, when he's been able to reach it, has not been kind to him, plaguing him with nightmares and memories of things best left forgotten. "I'm fine," he mumbles.

That earns him another peep, and somehow, she manages to make the little bird-noise sound sceptical. She must be taking lessons from her 'father' in that regard.

And speaking of, the bed dips with the weight of another body, a warm hand patting the back of his thigh. "Take your shift off," Merlin murmurs lowly.

Most nights, he'd be more than happy to hear those particular words, but right now, he's so very tired and all-over aching and a little heartsick over his father's deterioration. Gently shifting Aithusa from his neck, he props himself up on his right arm and pulls his shift up over his head mostly by way of some wriggling and squirming, not bothering to sit up all the way. Behind him, Merlin chuckles in amusement. A cork pops softly, and he can smell the aromatic pungence of camphor oil, spreading cool and slick over his shoulder.

A groan slips out of his chest as Merlin applies solid pressure against his shoulder, pressing down hard into the ache with the heel of his hands. It hurts, but gods' _mercy,_ it feels good, too. Arthur gathers up one of the pillows under him, resting his chin on the satin pillowcase as Merlin works his way down his back and back up again. A tingling warmth in the touch tells him it isn't only camphor oil easing his ache, and he smiles. "You cannot help yourself, can you?"

"Don't know what you mean, sire," Merlin replies, and Arthur doesn't even have to _see_ his face to know he's wearing that damn smirk.

Aithusa crawls back up his arm, peeping, and he chuckles as she makes herself at home perched atop his still-damp hair. She chirps at him, thumping the top of his head with her foreclaws. "What is she saying?" Arthur asks drowsily. Whilst he can feel some of her emotions, their bond hasn't developed to the point of complex communication.

"She wants to know why your fur is all damp. You aren't suitable for sleeping on now," Merlin replies with no small amount of amusement.

"Do dragons not take baths? How do they keep their scales clean?"

"Fire made flesh, of course they don't do well in water. They roll themselves in sand."

Sand. Huh. Arthur tilts his head to the side, sending Aithusa sliding off his head onto the pillow next to him with a loud peep. "Well, I have no sand in my chambers," he says, addressing the dragonet. She only peeps at him, clearly disapproving, but then she cocks her head at him and stretches her long neck out to take a mouthful of his damp hair. He grins as she rears up on her hindlegs to use both foreclaws as well; she doesn't pull hard enough to hurt, thankfully, more playful than anything else. She's already been given a lock of his hair for her own little hoard of treasure, which insofar consists of half a dozen buttons, some silk scraps, snips of ribbon, four loose rings of maille, a few tiny pieces of glass, three bird feathers, one pearl eardrop, and a handful of colourful pebbles. She keeps it all bundled up in one of Merlin's neckerchiefs and 'hidden' under Arthur's bed next to his coffer.

"How's your father?" Merlin asks as he corks the camphor oil and sets it aside, using the still-damp rag from the bath to swipe away some of the oil. He could've done just as well with his magic, but doing it by hand is soothing, familiar.

What bit of joviality he'd felt at the dragonet's antics dissipates. Arthur stretches a little, then rolls over onto his side, still holding the pillow against his chest and staring up at the bed canopy; Merlin stays gazing at him, lined in firelight from the hearth on one side and moonglow from the window on the other, unwontedly solemn. Waiting for an answer.

"He's…much as he has been," Arthur says at last, picking out the words with care. Not any better, not any worse, just the same as he had been for days, weeks, months now. Just the same.

A soft peep and a nudge against his cheek makes him turn his head. Aithusa is perched on his pillow and staring with wide blue eyes, concern trickling into the edges of his mind. Summoning a faint smile, he tickles under her chin with a fingertip, but she only peeps at him again. Then, quick as a flash, she gives a quarter turn and scrambles up the stacked pillows and over the headboard, crawling down the narrow space between the bed and wall. He can hear her talons scrabbling faintly at the wood. They're both still for a moment, listening to the faint rustling from beneath the bed, then the ascending scrabble of talons just before Aithusa springs back up over the headboard, something small clutched between her teeth. She hops over to him, fluttering her wings to keep balance, crawls up onto him, and drops whatever she's holding on his belly.

Arthur picks it up. It's a small flower, no bigger than his little fingernail, with blue petals and a silver centre. Looking at it, he would guess it had once been attached to one of those decorative hair combs or a piece of jewelry; not a very well-made one—it's only cut glass and tin—but it certainly does sparkle. "Very lovely," he says, unsure of what it is she wants, and holds it back out to her, but Aithusa chirps at him, nudging his hand with her nose. "What? Is this for me?" Another peep, another headbutt against his fingers. "Alright, alright. Thank you, Aithusa," he says, and she wriggles all over in delight, satisfaction tickling at him.

Merlin tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed with curiosity; Arthur wonders if he's aware of how dragonish he looks when he does that, or if he is even aware that he does it at all. Aithusa looks quite the same when she meets an interesting dust-ball or a particularly menacing sock. "Dragonets don't usually give up their treasures. She bit me when I took that nail away from her," he muses, wiggling his little finger for emphasis. Her spines and talons might still be softer, but her teeth, small as they are, are needle-sharp.

He rolls the little sparkly flower between his thumb and forefinger, wondering…and then understanding. Nudging Merlin's hip with one knee, he nods towards the table and the flowers adorning it, set in a milkglass vase. Merlin had started bringing them to Arthur's chambers long before they'd ever become lovers. At first, it had been done out of a convoluted sense of sarcasm in response to Arthur's own facetiousness, but once Merlin garnered that he actually did like having them around, the flowers became a steady fixture, usually yellow or blue, sometimes purple. Seeing them always made him lighter, even if only by the slightest amount.

Understanding and glee illuminate Merlin's face, and the look he bestows on Aithusa is full of adoration, reaching out to run a fingertip over her head. Arthur stretches out an arm to place the little flower on the side table right where he can see it.

She preens under their attention for a moment, then yawns widely, showing off her tiny needle teeth. Crawling up Arthur's chest, she settles herself in the dip of his shoulder and presses against him like a cat twisting itself impossibly around a favourite bit of furniture. Her tail curls around his bicep, wings draped over his collarbone, and she buries her snout in the longer hair behind his ear, huffing warm breath on his scalp. Arthur chuckles softly, feeling the hum of Aithusa's purring against his skin, tingling funnily. After a moment, she stops her soft purring and lifts her head to stare at Merlin, giving a particularly loud and demanding peep.

Arthur raises his brows with a smile. "You heard your daughter, Merlin."

"Oh, shut up and move over."

"It's a big bed, there's more than enough room on the other side. And I always sleep on the left."

Merlin rolls his eyes skyward, but he starts undressing either way, taking off his jacket and neckerchief, then his boots and socks. Once he's stripped down to his smallclothes, he grins and yanks Arthur's forgotten nightshift out from under the prince's legs, pulling it on. The neckline hangs loose on him, almost falling off one sharp-boned shoulder, unfairly appealing. Thus attired, he makes a show of climbing over Arthur, all elbow and knee, instead of just going around to the other side like a reasonable person.

 _"Ow,_ Merlin, be _careful,_ would you? I should like to have all my limbs come morning," Arthur grunts, swatting at him as best he can without dislodging Aithusa from his shoulder.

The younger man hums as he settles himself against Arthur's other side, slinging a leg over his shins and an arm over his stomach, head tucked into his shoulder. "Whatever you say, sire," he murmurs, already sounding half-asleep.

Arthur snorts but settles back against the bed, warmth sinking into him, dragging him down towards the rest that's been evading him for so many nights now. Caught between dragon and Dragonlord, he sleeps and does not dream.


End file.
